Done, Spellmaster.

"You'll have noticed that the frame keeps you from crushing the bones, but allows you to reach them. They're the remains of Gadaster Mulkyn, once a mighty mage, and you must not pull one bone apart from another. To have the power to slay the King and hurl aside his guards and courtiers, you must do as I say: Reach down with both of your arms, and your mouth, and embrace the bones as if they were a living man and he your lover."

Maelra lay above the skeleton, staring down into its dark and empty gaze and eternal grin, and wondered what would truly happen when she touched it. What was Ambelter keeping from her?

"Be not afraid, lass! You'll feel power passing into you, naught else. Maelra Bowdragon, I command you-"

My, but the Spellmaster suddenly seemed more fearful than she did! With a shrug and a smile, Maelra Bowdragon reached down and embraced the unknown.

Pbwer! Magic more than she'd ever felt before slammed into her, so sudden and clear and cold that Maelra arched up and back from it, shrieking soundlessly at the ceiling at the same time as she unthinkingly kicked at the frame, seeking to grind her pelvis down into the heart of what was flowing into her.

The skeleton shot bolt upright, passing like a ghost through the boards, and suddenly was embracing her, cold bones sliding hard and smooth over her trembling flesh, grinning right into her face with eyes that had kindled into two arctic stars floating in darkness, dry bony jaws parting as if to bite or kiss her… and then, just as she sought to try to shove it away and scream and struggle, the bones softly sighed into dust, and a wall of ruby fury rolled into Maelra's head. A voice that left her quivering in cowering silence in a small corner of her own mind announced gloatingly: HELLO, RASH YOUNGLING. I AM GADASTER MULKYN, AND THIS BODY WILL DO JUST FINE.

In a cavern where many men with melted faces stood silently, staring at nothing, Ingryl Ambelter gasped in horror as his mind-spying was severed as if by the slice of a knife. Gadaster was aware, and as powerful as if Ingryl Ambelter had never slain or bound or spell-drained him! He'd poured himself into the young wench, now, and-

"Claws of the Dark One," the Spellmaster gasped, hands shaking, and then mastered trembling fingers enough to shape a quick, imperious gesture with one hand, his Dwaer flaring into full life in the other. The armor was his only hope! If Gadaster was dust and this Maelra's body now his, he could be slain!

The body that had been Maelra Bowdragon knelt upright in the casket, head almost scraping the ceiling, and murmured two words she'd never known before. Then, quite suddenly, she was gone and something changed, all over the walls-scant instants before the discarded pieces of armor on the floor glowed with Dwaer-light and then burst with a violent roar, shredding the casket and shelves and everything else in the chamber in a frantic whirlwind of shrapnel that shrieked and rang off floor, ceiling, and walls with force enough to shatter stone blocks and send many deadly shards slicing down into the slow, drifting dust.

The cellars of Flowfoam shook briefly around the shattered, long-hidden room, and then, slowly, grew still once more.

Ingryl Ambelter muttered anxious words over his Dwaer, and peered into the roiling whirlwind. Did he dare send light to follow his farscrying?

He dared not fail to do so.

He must know if this oldest, yet most unlooked for peril had been destroyed at its birthing… or was coming for him, even now…?

He must know, must see what had befallen in the chamber where he'd kept his most secret and darkest magics for so long…

With both hands clutching his Dwaer in a clawlike grasp, Ingryl Ambelter stared into it, trying to wrap its power around him in a shield, and gazed through it at-ruin. Coffers, shelves, and casket were all but small and twisted shards among the dust. Nothing was left. The glow of fresh magic hung in the air, reverberating in waves of silent brightness… a violent casting, just before his own… and there was another enchantment crawling all over the walls. Crawling and dripping from the ceiling… blood. The walls were adrip with blood!

His eyes narrowed. A splendid wench, to be sure, tallish and yet supple, but-so much blood in her? And not a single hair, of all that long mane of hers, left behind?

A ruse, or so he must assume. Knowing his old master, it could very well be.

In a sudden pale, shaking fury, Ingryl slammed a spell into his Dwaer that would sever his scrying and slap down anyone trying to ride the spell-link to him.

Sweating, he sagged back into his chair and whispered, "Horns and kisses of the Great Lady, sap-spitde of the Forefather… bebolten dung-slung talons of the Dark One!" Staring unseeing at the Melted who stood in what was left of the armor he'd stripped from them, looking unseeingly back at him, the Spellmaster went on swearing.

It lasted a long time, but the Baron Phelinndar waited until Ambelter's curses died away into half-heard hisses before he said grimly, "I told you, wizard, that this was a fool's plan from the start. Your towering arrogance always gets us-"

"Be still or be dead!" Ingryl Ambelter snarled, plucking up the Dwaer as if to hurl it into Phelinndar's face.

Then he halted, and the two men sat in the cavern staring across a table at each other in hard-breathing silence, rage and fear warring in both their gazes.

The Dwaer-glow faded and left them looking at the beautiful lawns and gardens of Flowfoam-and two low, grassy mounds right in front of them.

Hawkril and Blackgult looked down at the graves of Sarasper and Brightpennant, but Embra's head snapped around to give Craer a questioning look. The procurer peeked into the saddlebag clutched in his hands, and announced, "Still there. The Dwaer looks whole-and dark."

Embra nodded, and said merely, "The cells."

They hurried into the palace, the grim glow of the Stone Embra held all the warrant they needed to make guards hasten aside at their approach, and descended into darkness.

Both swords and the Dwaer were held ready as a certain door scraped open-but in the damp, dark chamber beyond, a certain sorcerer still hung chained to the wall.

"How much have you seen?" Embra asked softly, without greeting. "Enough to keep your sanity, I trust?"

The Master of Bats laughed bitterly. "Many say I lost that years ago-just as you did, little darling of jewels, under your father's hands and his mages' teachings. His kisses were sweet, I trust?"

Embra's lips tightened. "You heard my first question?"

The sorcerer gave her a glare. "Of course I've been watching," he said mockingly. "What else is there for me to do? All folk of Aglirta should see their overdukes at work, and marvel thereby. I thank you for the entertainment."

Craer bowed with full court flourishes, but Blackgult said grimly, "Make us tire overmuch of bandying words with you, Huldaerus, and we'll simply slay you. Aglirta already has more unscrupulous mages than it can hold; we don't need you."

"Ah, but you do," the chained wizard replied. "Who else has the leisure"-he rattled his chains-"to watch what's happening, and see all? Have you looked upstairs yet?"

"Why?" Embra's voice was sharp. "What's afoot in the palace?"

"Faceless and Serpents everywhere-even with your pet imported bard to harp him on his way, your boy king can scarce avoid treading on his foes as they glide and slither down every passage. You really should be more attentive to your duties, and spend less time gallivanting about the Vale. Is it not written that 'The Serpent has many heads, and shall arise again and again'?"